


All That's Best of Dark and Bright

by zuzeca



Series: Mikaela/Scorponok Partners AU [3]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Fingerfucking, Holoform(s), Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Kissing, Motorcycle Sex, Other, Present Tense, Spark Sex, Walk Into A Bar, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1251454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You meet all sorts of strange folk on the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That's Best of Dark and Bright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [femme4jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme4jack/gifts).



> A small giftfic for femme4jack, spawned from a last-minute idea for Femmeslash February. I hope this helps make up for the lack of Mikaela in Bayverse. :3

The bar is rank, the yellowed lights dim and the counter sticky under elbows of her jacket. She chases the flavor of greasy burger with the acidic bite of cheap beer. Across the room a scruffy young man, his blond hair slicked back, casts a meretricious smile at her. She levels a stony stare at him until his expression falters and he looks away. She takes another swig of beer.

The barkeep slides a shot glass across the counter, its contents gleaming gold in the lamplight. “On the house,” he says. His breath is fetid enough she can smell it from here and he’s missing a tooth.

“Thanks but no thanks,” she says, swallowing back her bile. “I’m driving.”

“Awful late to be heading out,” he says. There’s a familiar gleam in his eye. “Nothing between here and Winslow but sand and scrub. I got a room in the back.”

She bites back the urge to tell him to drop dead. She’s a stranger here and while she doesn’t doubt that Scorponok would be through the wall in a moment if there’s trouble, there’s no call to go looking for it. “No thanks.”

“You sure?” he says. “It’s nicer than the motel.”

_Never been so sure of anything in all my life._ “I’m sure,” she says, busying herself with her glass, turning it to avoid cutting her lip on the chipped rim. 

The bell above the door jangles.

There’s an immediate shift in the room. The barkeep straightens, his gaze sliding off of her and out of the corner of her eye the young man finishes his beer and sits up, smirking. Behind her she hears a familiar tap: high-heeled shoes on laminate wood floor.

She looks up.

The woman is beautiful, all long legs and dusky skin. Dark hair, done in a stylish updo, curls and spills over bare shoulders, brushing the neckline of her dress. Brilliant red insets flash as she moves towards the bar, the dark matte grey of her skirt riding up her thighs.

She eyes the woman as she approaches. There’s plenty of space, but she makes for Mikaela, ignoring the barstool beside her and leaning up against the counter. Slender fingers reach past her and the woman plucks the shot glass and tosses it back. Hazel eyes close and she gives a little shudder that makes something in Mikaela’s stomach twist, before turning the glass over and setting it down with a small clink. Long lashes part and the woman smiles and winks at her. 

“I was drinking that,” she says, automatic, even though it’s a lie.

The woman purses her lips, the same vivid crimson as the insets of her skirt, and shrugs. She doesn’t look the least bit contrite.

“How about I get you another one?” says the barkeep. “A couple of rounds, for a couple of lovely ladies?”

The woman still doesn’t respond, but she gives a careless wave of her hand and the barkeep shuffles off. She turns, leaning back against the counter in a position that pushes her breasts against the bodice of her dress.

“Can I help you?” says Mikaela. Her voice is sharp with nerves.

The woman cocks her head but doesn’t answer.

_“¿Como se llama usted?”_ she offers warily. She’s picked up a smattering of half a dozen languages on their travels, but her Spanish is still pretty basic. The woman smiles, slow and spreading, and turns again, her hand rising to sweep aside the fall of her hair and expose the nape of her neck.

Her stomach lurches, as though she’s been dashed with ice water. There, inked into pale brown skin, is the curving tail and wicked telson of a scorpion.

_“Strictly speaking, we can’t produce holograms,” said Ratchet. “The word itself is convenient for trying to explain things to a species with such a limited scientific understanding, but it’s not precise. It would be more correct to call them a combination tool for concealment and fine scale manipulation.” He made a face. “Though some of our kind has been known to use them for…less scrupulous reasons.”_

_Fuck me,_ she thinks as Scorponok slides a hand up her thigh under the concealing shadow of the counter, not sure if it’s a curse or a prayer. She barely notices the barkeep placing two more glasses in front of her. _I can’t be seriously considering this. Whatever this is._

Scorponok dips a finger into one of the glasses and sucks the liquor off it, eyes on her, and Mikaela finds her mouth has gone suddenly, totally dry.

“Shall we?” she manages to croak, not even sure what she’s asking.

Those lips, far too lush and even to be real, quirk and Scorponok, still impossible to wrap her head around the idea, rises with a swish of skirts. And Mikaela follows, excruciatingly conscious of the weight of eyes on them. The young man in the corner isn’t smiling any more.

It’s still close enough to sunset that the night air is baking and pungent. Insects swarm in the sodium lights and beyond them the endless night is alive with stars. The motorcycle is just where she left it. She rests her hand on the handlebar and looks uncertainly at the woman.

No smiles this time, just a brief, considering look and the scrape of heels against worn asphalt. Hands cradle her face, shockingly solid and warm, and she can’t tell if the slight tingle beneath her skin is arousal or alien technology, and then they slide up, burying fingers in her hair and she’s being kissed.

Scorponok is kissing her.

It’s electric, literally. Her mouth is buzzing and numb even as she navigates the familiar-unfamiliar shape of human lips, not thin and chapped but smooth and slick. And then Scorponok sucks on her tongue and her knees go weak.

She’s released, so sudden it leaves her gasping for air and the woman taps the saddle of the motorcycle.

It’s grounding to don her helmet and mount, settling into the familiar contours of the seat. The woman vanishes and reappears, the first indication that she is both more and less than what she seems, pressing warm and solid against Mikaela’s back, bare thighs touching the outside of her legs. Scorponok’s engine growls beneath her.

There are no highway lights this far into the desert and no moon tonight. Scorponok glides along, a shadow in the darkness, picking up speed even as clever fingers pluck at the button of her jeans.

She trembles a moment, uncertain, but she’s trusted her partner in stranger and more deadly situations than this. She closes her eyes and squeezes the handlebars tight as a small, soft hand slips inside her underwear.

Her breath is loud inside her helmet, even over the scream of the wind. Fingers part her, touching like she hasn’t been touched in ages, even in the years before they met, precision movements, bowling past teasing and hesitation and they’ve barely started and already she’s going to come.

Scorponok keeps her there, riding that edge even as they wind their way up into the mountains, making for the high desert. She squeezes her eyes shut so tight she sees stars, conscious only of the purr of that inhumanly beautiful engine, the warm steel grip of arms around her, holding her steady.

“Please,” she chokes out at last, and Scorponok presses her down, grinding her against the apex of the saddle and the engine roars and she comes so hard she thinks she’ll pass out.

Her blood throbs in her ears as Scorponok downshifts and leaves the road behind, rough grass and shrubs scraping against them. Her breath is coming in deep, sobbing gasps, and when they finally roll to a halt and she manages to dismount she nearly falls flat on her face.

The woman catches her, slowing her descent to let her rest on the gritty soil, her legs trembling. She’s only half-aware of the contents of Scorponok’s saddle bags being disgorged, but she takes the sleeping bag tossed her way gratefully, too tired to care that she’s dirtying the interior as she wriggles inside. The familiar sound of transformation brings her attention back to the present and then a huge claw gently bumps her through the layer of her sleeping bag.

She reaches out to rest her hand on warm metal. The woman stretches out beside her and arms enfold her, a tight yet undamaging grip.

_Fine scale manipulation,_ she thinks, wry.

As her head clears, she becomes aware that Scorponok is hovering, body aquiver with tension and the realization startles a laugh from her. “Alright, I’m sorry. You’ve made your point. Come here.” 

The woman presses a kiss against her hair as Scorponok’s spark lights up the desert night.


End file.
